


Galleriini

by methylviolet10b



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen, Prompt Fic, Retirement, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-12
Updated: 2014-07-12
Packaged: 2018-02-08 11:37:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1939599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes contemplates another crime. Written for JWP #11.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Galleriini

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Unrepentant happy-ever-after retired together in Sussex. And absolutely no beta. This was written in a complete rush. You have been warned.

JWP #11: **Save the Bees!** We all know that bees are in trouble - and how important they are to everyone, Sherlock Holmes included. Whether it's participating in (or starting!) [an Indigogo campaign like this one](https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/six-legged-bigfoot-the-fall-and-rise-of-the-western-bumblebee), a stint in a laboratory, or some other strategem, how would you have Holmes act to save bees?  
  
  
The winter had been unusually harsh, keeping both Holmes and I indoors most of the time. Between Holmes’ rheumatism and ever-thin body, he felt the cold more than most. While I was decidedly better-insulated – not quite portly, but I struggled not to deserve the term – I felt the cold bitterly in my old wounds, and my lungs were less well able to handle sharp, bitter weather than I could wish.  
  
By and large, we managed to keep ourselves happily occupied, I with my reading and writing, Holmes with his monographs, listening to the phonograph, and tinkering with his Marconi wireless equipment. My friend had developed a fascination with wireless and radio in 1910, and persisted in experimenting with it whenever his hands would permit such delicate work. It was a far less noxious pastime than his chemical researches, one far better suited to the interior of our small Sussex cottage.  
  
We also had each other. We had long been each other’s best company, even in the days before we understood ourselves, and each other, as well as we did in our later years. We could spend our days in talk, or in amiable silence, as suited our moods; and never feel a lack of companionship.  
  
Still, by the time spring arrived, we were both restless, ready for a change in occupation. I anticipated my work in the flower and vegetable beds as eagerly as Holmes looked forward to visiting his hives. On the first sunny, mild morning, we were both up with the dawn. I could barely convince Holmes to drink a cup of tea and take a bite of toast before he was off, hurrying towards the shed where he kept his beekeeping gear. I took scarcely any more time over my more substantial breakfast before heading outside to inspect the cold frames where I had started the hardiest early plants. Some of my pots showed tiny seedlings, reward for my efforts, and a tour of the strawed-up flowerbeds showed similar hopeful signs of tiny shoots just starting to poke up through the soil. There was much to do, and would be much to do in the weeks to come, but despite some winter losses, the overall structure of my garden looked as if it had survived the winter fairly well.  
  
Holmes’ face did not show equal optimism to my own when I went to find him. He was not at the hives, but back in the honey-house, taking apart a box I recognized as part of a hive. “Are the bees well?” I asked, hoping I mistook his mood.  
  
“No,” he answered shortly. “Two of the hives came through well enough, but only two. A third shows some sign of activity, but it’s doubtful that it can survive until spring fully arrives. And as for the other three…”  He wrenched at the box with his hive-tool. It popped open, and he reached inside and lifted out a frame. Instead of a mass of honeycomb, I saw a wreck of grey-white dirty webbing, with no sign of bees. Holmes snarled. “Waxworm. Completely ruined.” He threw down the hive tool and it landed on the surface of the workbench with a clatter.  
  
Years ago, I might have been put off by such a display of temper, but I knew him better now. I walked up behind him and placed one hand on his shoulder. “My dear fellow, I am so sorry. Is there nothing to be done?”  
  
I felt some of his tense muscles relax at my touch. “The bees are gone, and I shall have to burn these infested hives, lest any eggs remain and infect the two I have remaining,” Holmes answered in a low voice. “It’s likely the third already has waxworm in it, and that is why it will fail.”  
  
“Is there no other treatment? No chemical you could apply?”  
  
Holmes looked startled, then thoughtful. “There are some treatments available, but none of them have been favorably reviewed by the British Beekeeper’s Association. Still, I doubt any of those inventors have even a quarter of my chemical expertise.” His expression brightened. “If I could devise an effective treatment, it would be immensely useful to beekeepers. Not to mention potentially quite profitable.” His eyes twinkled at me. “Perhaps even profitable enough to finally deter you from publishing any more of your fables.”  
  
I mock-glared at him. “Hardly likely.”  
  
He gave me his thin-lipped smile, different only now in that the wrinkles around his eyes crinkled to match it. “I suppose not. Still, it would be a fine addendum to my career. After years catching the villains and thieves in the human world, what better than to put a stop to the robbers and killers of the honey-hive?”  
  
I smiled back, glad to see him so enthused. “I can think of nothing better.”


End file.
